


The Path Forged by Fire

by Silverite_Pride



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Post-Trespasser, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-26 20:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30111534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverite_Pride/pseuds/Silverite_Pride
Summary: Fen'Harel is powerful.  He is cunning.  He is wise.Fen'Harel is ruthless.  He is fierce.  He is terrifying.Fen'Harel does not cry.  He does not crack.  He does not break.But sometimes, when the weight of his burden becomes too great, when he feels like he is crumbling beneath the mantle of Fen'Harel, he seeks her out.He tells himself it will only be for a moment.  Just one moment of relief.  One moment to look upon her face and feel like he isn't drowning.Just one moment.  That's all it will be.Set about a year after Trespasser.  Mostly canon-compliant, with a few minor-ish changes and liberties taken.  Slow-ish (medium-ish?) burn, with eventual explicit smut.  Canon-typical violence.  Still very much a work in progress and new chapters will be posted as I finish them, and won't necessarily follow any kind of schedule.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan & Solas (Dragon Age), Fen'Harel/Female Lavellan (Dragon Age), Fen'Harel/Lavellan (Dragon Age), Lavellan & Solas (Dragon Age), Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter One

Fen'Harel was nothing if not deliberate and controlled.

He was not one to throw things, or rant and rave, or pout. The Dread Wolf was far too reserved for that.

Instead, Fen'Harel's anger could be seen clearly in the sinister darkness in his eyes, heard in the unyielding steel in his voice, and felt in the coldness that emanated from him and seemed to sap the life out of the room.

The thin, grey-haired elf sighed from her spot against the wall, watching him as he stood on the dais of the Great Hall. He didn’t move, those cold slate eyes didn’t blink, and yet she felt as if she were being pummeled by his rage.

She would have preferred ranting and raving.

“Fen'Ghilan,” the Dread Wolf growled, his voice cutting through the hall. Everyone cringed with the dark power of that voice.

Everyone except for the grey-haired elf, who stepped fearlessly forward, even as that wave of ruthless, cold fury washed over her.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“How many?”

“Forty-two.”

Another spark of anger pulsed around him. She didn’t have to be a mage to feel it crackling along the Veil, tingling on her skin and in the back of her throat.

“Who led them?”

“Pol.”

“Where is he now?”

“Contemplating the consequences of his actions.”

The Dread Wolf shot her a fierce warning glare. She rolled her eyes. “He’s in the dungeon, my Lord.”

What, did he think she’d put him in a guest suite? Where else would he be?

“Bring him here.”

“I already sent the guards to fetch him.”

He gave her a droll look, but she only shrugged. If he was going to insist on being inefficient, she’d simply work around it.

The Dread Wolf was a brilliant strategic mastermind, there was no doubt about that, and he possessed unimaginable knowledge and power. If there was _any_ being powerful enough, intelligent enough, calculating enough, and heartless enough to truly be called a god, it was the ancient being who towered over everyone else in the hall.

But he was dramatic beyond reason. And he still tended to think in terms of years, decades, centuries. Even after more than five years living in this world, that habit was hard to break.

She did _try_ to be patient with the god. After all, his people had _all_ been like that. Eloquent, poetic, artistic, even their very language was less a method of efficient communication and more a spiritual communion with butterflies, and rainbows, and all the beautiful drama they could muster.

And particularly during his rebellion, Fen’Harel had relied heavily on that drama. He’d been outnumbered, outgunned, fighting from the shadows against the most powerful force the world has ever known. His ability to inspire hope in his followers and strike fear in his enemies had been instrumental in his success.

But she didn’t have that kind of time. She was an old woman now. And she swore on everything she held dear that she would make Denerim _crumble_ before she died. They would feel every shred of pain and fear that her husband and daughter had felt. They would die screaming, just as Torlen and Ghisa had.

Every moment Fen'Harel spent posturing and pausing for dramatic effect was another moment those _monsters_ still drew breath.

So they waited, a heavy silence hanging over the hall. Only she and Fen'Harel seemed immune to the tension that left everyone else uncomfortable and anxious.

Sure, he intimidated her just as he did everyone else. And sure, she’d seen what happens to those who annoyed the rebel god one too many times.

But she was old. She’d lived a long life. And there was _nothing_ he could do to her that was worse than what she had already endured.

So she’d never feared him. She’d never collapsed at his feet, praising his name or begging for mercy.

And it was that lack of fear that caught his eye.

Because, for as effective a leader as he was, and as exorbitantly powerful, the Dread Wolf seemed _really_ uncomfortable with the kind of worship one might expect from thousands of years' worth of mythology.

Apparently he had been called a god before, by the people he led before the Veil, but those had been _his_ people. The elves who followed him now were fractured. Broken. Shadows of what elves were _supposed_ to be.

And they had grown up worshipping him as a god, while his people had not. It was a different kind of reverence, she supposed. A different level of devotion between a slave and a powerful mage, than between a mortal peasant and an immortal being of unfathomable knowledge and power.

His insistence that he _wasn’t_ a god did nothing to convince the people to stop worshiping him as one.

No matter how often he corrected or denied claims of divinity, no matter how often or how loudly he insisted that he wasn’t a god, the worship continued.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, honestly. He was an immortal mage, powerful enough to change the very nature of reality. He could turn people to stone or set their blood on fire with a blink of his eyes. With control of the Eluvians, he could be anywhere, at any time.

The power he wielded was immense beyond measure. More than that, he was a figure from the elven golden age. He’d walked out of their mythology and offered sanctuary and salvation to any who chose to follow him.

It wasn’t surprising that modern elves insisted on seeing him as a god.

But most of his closest circle, his advisors and generals, were people he’d met in the Inquisition. People who knew him before they learned the truth about his identity.

Those people tended to be far more comfortable around him. And spending time with the Inquisition had given even the lowliest servant a unique eye for military strategy.

Verla was one of only a few of his generals who had come to him after the Inquisition disbanded. And it was her shrewdness, her calculated efficiency, and the fact that she didn’t quiver with fear or adoration when he walked by, that had caught his attention.

Most would have been terrified, or at least significantly unnerved, to find that the Dread Wolf had caught their scent, but Verla hadn’t been afraid.

He’d summoned her to him, realized how valuable her insight was, and given her a position in his inner circle. When she accepted, he changed her name to Fen’Ghilan, the Guiding Wolf, and just like that, she became a general of Fen’Harel.

So she stood tall, facing the wrath of a god, and breathed easily.

Finally, a door opened and two guards walked in, leading a tall elf into the room.

“Pol.”

The elf flinched.

“My Lord,” Pol stammered.

“How many lives were lost?”

The elf shifted uncomfortably. “Too many, my Lord.”

Fen'Ghilan sighed inwardly and shook her head.

_Oh you poor, damned fool._

There were few things that infuriated Fen'Harel more than incompetence. One of those things was a disregard for lost life.

Poor Pol had made a foolish decision that resulted in the deaths of forty-two people. People who had pledged themselves to Fen'Harel. Who had put their faith and trust in him, and relied on him to protect them.

Now, those people were dead.

And Pol didn’t even know exactly _how many_ of his people he’d lost.

Disregard for the needless deaths, _on top of_ incompetence, was something the Dread Wolf would not forgive.

“The number,” Fen’Harel pressed.

“The… exact number, my Lord?”

“They were your men, were they not?”

“Yes, my Lord. Of course. It’s just that… after the attack… everything happened too quickly. We never had time to count losses.”

“Or go back for the wounded.”

“There was an army bearing down on us!” Pol cried. He seemed to finally understand just how grave the situation was, and barely contained his panic. “I was afraid we’d lose more!”

“You were told not to use that road,” Fen’Harel growled. “Those men should not have died.”

“It was supposed to take only a single afternoon! The scouts said the road was clear! I didn’t see the harm!”

“No, you did not.”

“My Lord, plea-"

Fen’Harel's eyes flashed with a terrifying blue-white brilliance, and Pol's words cut off in a choked cry as his body turned to stone.

Fen'Harel raised his hand and clenched it tightly into a fist. As he did, the stone imploded, crumbling into dust.

Without a word, the Dread Wolf turned, walking out of the room.

Once he was gone, everyone still in the hall took a collective breath of relief.

Fen’Ghilan turned to the guards.

“Clean this up,” she ordered, gesturing to the pile of dust and rubble that had once been a person. Then, she hurried out the same door Fen'Harel had taken.

He was already some way down the hallway, moving quickly. A servant gasped and jumped aside as he passed, but he didn’t acknowledge her at all.

He turned a corner, and Fen’Ghilan had to jog to catch up to him. He showed no signs of slowing down.

Finally, after he turned another corner and stalked down an empty hallway, she stopped. “I _know_ you know I’m here,” she panted. “Are you really going to make me chase you all over the castle? With my old knees?”

He slowed, then turned to look back to her.

“Was there something more you wished to say?”

“Oh nothing, by all means, keep stomping around, terrifying the help.”

His eyes narrowed as she closed the distance between them. “Careful.”

“Fine. Forgive me, my Lord Fen'Harel, savior of my people, et cetera.”

“If you have a point, I suggest you make it.”

“In case it happened to slip your attention, my Lord, we’re in a _war_. People _die_ in wars. It’s sort of a defining characteristic. If we start executing our officers every time a plan goes wrong, we’re not going to have much of an army.”

“That plan did not _go wrong_ ,” he sneered. “He _deliberately_ put them in harm’s way.”

“He saw a more efficient route, and checked with the scouts to make sure it was clear. It wasn’t a _great_ decision, but his reasoning was solid.”

“You _defend_ him?”

“He made a _mistake_. He won’t be the last one to do that. Not all of us are immortal, all-knowing god-kings of myth and legend.”

He growled under his breath. “Their deaths were needless.”

“So was his.”

 _That_ definitely got his attention. He fixed her with a hard, dangerous stare.

Fen’Harel wasn’t unreasonable, for the most part, but challenging him was risky, and needed to be done rarely and carefully.

The Dread Wolf was not the tolerant or forgiving sort.

Fen’Ghilan sighed, holding up her hands in appeasement. “Fine, _maybe_ that was an overstep,” she acknowledged. “But I stand by it.”

He held her gaze for a moment, and she could _see_ her own death playing out in those cold slate eyes. She was pushing her luck, probably way too hard.

But that’s part of why he’d chosen her. Not only was her judgement sound, but she wasn’t afraid to tell him when he was wrong.

And after a heavy, heated moment, he seemed to remember that, too. His eyes softened, and he relaxed his posture, clasping his hands behind his back as he regarded her.

“I am listening,” he said simply.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she recognized that, if she kept gambling so recklessly with her life and his anger, eventually his anger would win out.

But that was a problem for another day.

“I’m not suggesting that you should start allowing incompetence,” she began. “But there needs to be a difference between an incompetent officer and a good one who made a mistake.”

“And you believe Pol was a good officer?”

“ _Good_ is probably a stretch,” she admitted. “But he was decent. Trustworthy.”

“He left wounded men and women to die.”

“How many more might he have lost if he _had_ gone back for them?”

“He would have lost _none_ had he taken the route he was _told_ to take.”

“And if his plan had worked, you would’ve congratulated him for his ingenuity and instincts.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted. “Though the fact that his plan did _not_ work shows that his instincts were wrong. He failed.”

“I noticed that.”

“And you would have me celebrate failure?” he demanded, annoyed with her sarcasm now. “Simply fill my ranks with the incompetent and mediocre? Congratulate them for what, their _creativity,_ when their shortsighted ideas fail, and hope someone eventually gets lucky?”

Fen'Ghilan rolled her eyes to mask her relief. Whenever Fen’Harel started with his own sarcasm, the danger had passed. He was extremely unlikely to kill someone in favor of taking another opportunity to be clever.

“Of course not. I just think there might be _some_ middle ground between ‘celebrate failure’ and ‘kill someone for being less than flawless.’”

Something flashed in his eyes, then. Some inward spark, as if his mind was suddenly transported somewhere else. But then, almost faster than she could recognize and acknowledge it, his self-control snapped forward once again, extinguishing that spark and bringing his focus back to her.

There was a heartbeat of silence between them. Then he looked to her, gave a short, curt nod, and turned to walk away.

She sighed. She really needed to stop being so reckless with her life.

………………………………………

Solas glared at the floor as he walked the halls he’d memorized eons ago, toward the safety and solitude of his quarters.

He needed to get ahold of himself.

What was wrong with him? To have lost his control like that? Over a single sentence? Simply because there had been a vague similarity to how it had once sounded in _her_ voice?

_There has to be some middle ground between ‘do nothing' and ‘bind Cole with blood magic.’_

Unbidden, images of her flashed through his mind, bringing him back to that moment, that day, the way the sunlight danced on her red hair, the way the Veil sparkled along her skin.

He remembered her voice. Her eyes. Her confidence.

It hadn’t even been a question in her mind. She didn’t know _anything_ about magic, or spirits, and she’d been so effortlessly confident about the existence of this convenient hypothetical third option.

It had rung out in her voice, clear and bright, as though her will alone was enough to validate the existence of such an option.

And he had fallen just a little deeper in love with her for that.

Her easy confidence, the spark of mischief that seemed to live permanently behind those amber eyes, the crooked smile that she always seemed to be a mere heartbeat away from showing, she showed a life and a passion he hadn’t expected to see in such a muted, colorless world.

_Iselan._

Her name meant “Fire Woman,” and it fit her.

Flames danced behind her eyes, along her copper skin, through the strands of her red hair. Her passion, her temper, her exuberance, her brash impulsiveness, her obstinate cheerfulness, her impetuous stubbornness, it was all made of the fire that burned so wild within her.

And then, he had watched that fire grow dimmer under the weight of Inquisitor. Dimmer still as she learned more about the Evanuris and lost her faith.

And then, it had gone cold after he walked away from her in Crestwood, leaving her bare-faced and heartbroken.

He hadn’t been the only one to notice the change in her.

Josephine, ever tactful and polite, had remained silent on the matter, though she didn’t know he could see her spirit recoil from him whenever they were in the same room.

Cullen had glared angrily at him from the battlements whenever he stepped out into the courtyard, and made a point to walk with purpose, his hand conspicuously on the hilt of his sword, as he strode through Solas' rotunda whenever he attended a war room meeting.

Leliana was… less subtle. Even months later, he would still occasionally find the odd Nightingale dagger hidden in his bedroll or stabbed into the wood of his desk, accompanied by a thin strip of paper, bearing the same words in Leliana's graceful, deliberate script:

_Sleep well._

Iselan’s wolf, Rasa, had let out a soft growl the first time he’d gotten close to her, but he’d silenced the animal with a discreet, hard stare.

Iselan may not have known the true nature of her guardian, or that the bond she had with him had been forged in the Fade itself, eons ago. She may not have known the connection elves had shared with wolves long before he took up the mantle of Fen’Harel.

She didn’t know. But _he_ did. And the wolf had quieted instantly.

Ever her guardian and protector, though, he still watched Solas with a steady, silent stare. And Solas had no doubt that, even though the guardian recognized the power he wielded, he would still have thrown himself at Solas without a second thought, sacrificing his life to protect the girl they both loved.

The silence of their companions was the hardest to bear. More than once, he’d looked to Cassandra or Iron Bull and saw death in their eyes. The easy companionship he’d felt with Varric was gone. Dorian stopped his lighthearted teasing, and Sera had stopped engaging with him completely.

They had all been unnerved by the sudden change in Iselan. The coldness in her.

And there was nothing he could say, because it unnerved him, too. 

She’d lost her faith. Her way of life. Her history. Her entire perception. It had all been turned on its head.

And then, he’d taken her vallaslin and broken her heart.

He knew she would either continue sinking until the pain destroyed her, or she would let it harden her to a fine edge, turn her pain into a weapon that could be unleashed at will.

It was only a matter of time, and then they’d all know which path she would take.

So it had surprised him greatly to realize she’d taken neither, instead forging her own path.

Over time, she began smiling again. Laughing again. She started playing pranks with Sera again, and drinking with Iron Bull. She started going to Varric's weekly Wicked Grace games again.

There was still a deep sorrow around her eyes, a honeyed hurt in her voice that he longed to kiss away. Her mischief and playfulness were tinged with sadness and regret. And sometimes, particularly in the Western Approach and Hissing Wastes, she’d sneak away in the middle of the night and just stare up at the vast expanse of sky.

The pain still lived in her. He could still feel it.

But instead of letting it change her, she had simply accepted its existence and moved on. Tenderly, patiently, she had coaxed the dying embers of her spirit back to life.

Eventually, she could even look at him without that heartbreak shining through her eyes. They learned to be comfortable in each other’s presence once again.

And her ability to move on, the strength it took to let go of her pain, had only made him fall that much deeper in love with her.

And then, he’d walked away.

After Corypheus, he’d left her and kept himself in control for two years, falling too easily back into his role of Fen’Harel. And for the first time since he’d woken up, things seemed to be going to plan.

Until he saw her again, on that hilltop, in the ruins of a place he'd once loved. Standing there, in the land of her ancestors, as the spirits sang around her, she'd looked every bit as vibrant and stunning as she’d always been, even as the Anchor shredded its way across her skin, tearing her apart at the seams.

Her beauty, her strength, her spirit had overwhelmed him too easily. As if the last two years had meant nothing.

He’d expected anger. Fear. Revulsion. He’d expected her to react with horror when she learned that he was the villain of her mythology. That he was responsible for the fall of her people.

He hadn’t expected her to _forgive_ him. That possibility hadn’t even crossed his mind.

But she _did_ forgive him. She begged him to abandon his plan and be with her. Or to let her come with him.

_Var lath vir suledin!_

Our love will persevere.

Even overcome with pain, within hours of death, _that's_ what she said. She’d used her rapidly-draining strength to say _that_.

It had broken him in a way he didn’t think was possible.

He had stood there, looking down at her as she knelt on the cold, broken stone, clutching her hand and screaming in pain, and he could feel the pillars of his spirit crumbling around him. Could feel his heart choking beneath the weight of his burden. 

And then, because he was a self-indulgent fool, he’d made it even worse by kissing her.

Oh, _why_ had he kissed her? He'd _known_ it would be a mistake. He'd _known_ it would tear him apart. But he'd done it anyway. Being that close to her, he couldn't help himself.

Leaving her had torn him in half. It had left a scar in him that would never truly heal.

Every so often, he would seek her out in the Fade. Just to catch a glimpse of her, when he felt like he was drowning. When the fragile control he had over his unruly heart began to tear and strain, he would seek her out.

And she would always call to him, and reach for him, and the echo of his name on her lips would stay with him, both grounding him and shredding yet another piece of his heart.

The pain he would wake with, after leaving her in the Fade, was always overwhelming. But the pain of not seeing her, not hearing her voice, was far worse.

He needed her. He needed to see her.

Just for a moment.

He reached his rooms to discover two servants tending to the fire and scrubbing the floor. They both gasped in surprise as he walked in, and fell to their knees.

“Leave me,” he ordered.

“Yes, Lord Fen’Harel,” they responded, scrambling to obey him.

Their fear screamed out in their eyes.

He’d almost forgotten how much he hated that. And how necessary it was. One of the many lessons Mythal had taught him.

_You must be loved, respected, and feared, in equal measure. A delicate balance must be maintained. Too far in any direction will ruin you._

That was the mask he had to wear now, as he rebuilt his forces and hoarded the power he would need to complete his task. It was a role he was good at playing. A Game he knew he could win.

But he’d forgotten just how lonely it could be. Being here again, in his ancient fortress, surrounded by his followers, it only made him long for Iselan even more.

To hear his _name_ , rather than a title. To hear her voice. To see her face.

Alone, in his private rooms, he felt like he was suffocating. The pressure bearing down on his chest was only getting stronger. His spirit groaned and snapped under the weight of his burden.

He wanted just a moment of relief. Just a moment to look upon someone who knew him, the _real_ him.

He would seek her out, but only for a moment. Just long enough to catch a glimpse of her. That’s all it would be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iselan is dreaming.
> 
> He won't stay long. It will just be for a moment, and then he'll leave. He just needs one moment of relief.
> 
> That's all it will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we know that Patrick Weekes is a god among men, yes?
> 
> Well it turns out, staying true to the way Solas speaks in DAI is really, really, REALLY tough to do. So please forgive the clumsy attempt at his Hallelujah dialogue. It felt important enough to include at that point in the scene, but it's like, annoyingly hard to write. Still, I'm surprisingly not upset with how it turned out, even though it doesn't hold a candle to Solas' speech in-game.

Iselan was dreaming again.

Sparkling and serene, the Fade shifted and shimmered around her, eagerly reflecting her thoughts, her feelings, her desires.

Hovering near the edges of her dream, Solas could feel the tendrils of her emotions. Quiet, calm, wistful. Bittersweet nostalgia. Happiness tinged with longing. Loss softened by love.

Beneath that, he could feel the faint, silent presence of Rasa, watching over her even as she slept. He watched quietly as Solas drew closer to the dream.

Solas nodded to him in acknowledgement, showing respect for the bond the guardian shared with his warrior. Rasa acknowledged him in kind, always silent, always watchful.

Then Solas turned his attention back to Iselan, back to her dream.

 _Stop this. Stay away. Let her go_.

Nothing good would come from seeing her. Or from letting her see him. All it would do was prolong both their suffering.

And hadn’t he already done enough to her?

Yet, even as he acknowledged the pain he’d caused her, he couldn’t bring himself to turn away. The pull of her heart on his was too great. He could feel it tugging at the edges of his awareness, drawing him ever closer, a current moving through the fabric of the Fade itself. Only when he stopped fighting that pull and let the current carry him home, did he ever feel relief.

Just a moment’s relief. There would be no harm in just a moment’s relief. Just to drink in the sight of her. Only for a moment.

That’s all it would be. Nothing more.

Because these stolen moments, watching her from within her dreams, were often all he could cling to when the weight of his role threatened to crush him. When the lonely pillars of his heart began to crack and crumble, she was the only one could hold him up.

He’d only stay for a moment. Just long enough that he didn’t quite feel like he was drowning.

He moved through the boundary and stepped into her dream.

Instantly, he was transported to a tranquil, snowy wilderness. The air had the peculiar crisp quality of being high in the mountains, but it wasn’t cold.

He smiled inwardly as he moved through the blanketed landscape. Of _course_ it wasn’t cold. She was from the north, after all. The entire time he’d known her, she’d _hated_ the cold with a seething passion.

She _did_ love Skyhold, however. And _no one_ knew those mountains like he did. He immediately recognized the wilderness in which he found himself. He wasn’t far from the Keep.

As it always did, her mastery of the Fade surprised him.

Most mortals did not have the connection to the Fade that she did. Or, if they did, it was something they had to work at. It took effort. Study. Practice.

Iselan was young and inexperienced. She wasn’t even a mage. She hadn’t even known how to do this at all until he taught her.

And yet, she recreated this beautiful landscape with astonishing precision, a level of skill that would impress even the most powerful Circle mages.

He moved carefully as he searched for her, making sure to remain hidden.

It wasn’t difficult. Everything here was more rigid. More solid. More predictable. The product of someone who had lived their entire life in a world that could not be affected by sheer will alone. Here, the Fade acted more like her world, and he could make his way deeper into the dream without worry of anything being drastically altered.

After a moment, he reached a precipice and looked out over a snowy valley, a frozen river threading its way through it.

The valley below Skyhold. A sight that had brought him both sadness and comfort in equal measure, for thousands of years.

There was the Keep, on the opposite end of the valley, looking every bit as stately and regal as it had the first time he’d shown it to her.

His _home_.

And there she was, standing at the edge of a high cliff, her back to him, gazing out across the valley.

The Fade pulsed around her, rippling across the Veil as she reached through it. It danced along her skin, weaving through and across the light of her spirit.

Oh, but she was _beautiful_! 

His love, his heart.

His _home_.

She was the flame that warmed him, that comforted him, that chased away the shadows in a shadowed, muted world.

And he… he was the wolf in the night, come to steal away everything she loved.

Ah, what was he _doing_ there? Why couldn’t he tear his eyes away from her? Why couldn’t he stay away?

He knew better than this. He _was_ better than this. All this was doing was causing more pain.

This _hurt_. This longing, this hollow, haunted aching within him. It _hurt_ , more than _anything_ he’d ever felt.

He yearned for her. 

She was the only thing he’d ever _truly_ wanted. The only one who could quiet the storm that raged around him. His shelter. His sanctuary.

But it was denied him. It would _always_ be denied him.

“Nuvenan na amahn,” she murmured.

The honey of her voice was a balm on his shredded spirit, soft and low in his ear, even despite the distance between them.

 _I miss you_.

His breath caught. No matter how careful he was, no matter how well-hidden he kept himself, she could always sense him. Her mastery of the Fade really was extraordinary, and she knew him far too well.

What a fool he was! Why hadn’t he just stayed away?

He watched her, expecting her to turn around, to reach for him like she always did. It tore him apart to leave her, to always stay just out of her grasp, but sometimes that short glimpse at her face just before he faded away was the only thing keeping him from shattering.

This time, though, she didn’t turn. She didn’t reach for him. She simply stood there, looking out towards the Keep, wrapping her arms around herself.

Here in the Fade, she still had her left hand, though it was only a memory. Even from where he stood at the edge of the trees, he could see that it was fainter, softer, not as solid as her right hand.

Just another thing he’d taken from her.

“Do you remember the first time we went to the Hinterlands? That refugee camp at the crossroads?”

_I remember how selfless and gentle you were, yet unafraid to fight for those who needed you. I remember watching you with wonder. You were the one who taught me how to find beauty in this colorless world, and my name on your lips is the only song I need, and what I would give to be able to tell you how much I love you._

_Leave. Leave now._

He knew he _should_ leave. The longer he stayed, the harder it would be on both of them. But he waited.

“I didn’t know anything about Ferelden. Or the war. Or the Chantry. I _barely_ even knew anything about humans, much less _southern_ humans. And suddenly I was the ‘chosen one’ of their religion. It felt too big.”

She shook her head with a rueful laugh. “ _That_ felt too big, can you imagine? But those people didn’t have big problems. They were hungry. Cold. Scared. Those were things I could fix. I could hand out blankets. I could shoot a few rams. It felt good to see a problem and know _exactly_ how to solve it.”

She hesitated, staring out across the Fade. “Do you ever miss the easy problems?”

He didn’t answer, but took a wary step toward her, feeling the pull of her overriding his caution.

Fenhedis, _why_? Why was he doing this to himself? To _her_? Why couldn’t he resist that pull? Why couldn’t he stay away?

Was he truly so weak?

No, he had to leave. This was too much.

And he took another step toward her.

“Everything felt manageable there,” she continued. “And Haven. Haven's problems were small. We needed supply lines. Food. Iron. Gold. We needed to protect the roads. Keep the mages and templars from setting each other on fire.”

She chuckled to herself, and didn’t seem to notice him move a little closer. “Though at times, _that_ was spectacularly difficult to do. Still, it was a small problem. Something we could fix.”

He was standing almost beside her, now, barely more than an arm’s length away. Close enough that he could reach for her and pull her to his side, if he wanted.

But he remained still, his hands clasped behind his back to mask his desire to cling to her, his head held high to mask his desire to lay his heart, his life, his _spirit_ at her feet.

He was Fen’Harel. As always, his desires were irrelevant. They had to be.

He watched her shoulders rise and fall with her breath. Being this close to her, after so long, was the most exquisite agony.

He should leave. Staying any longer would only make her pain worse. Why couldn’t he leave? Why had he moved so close to her?

What was he _thinking_?

“Did you ever have little problems like that?” she asked. “Before you were Fen'Harel? Do you ever miss them?”

_More than you can imagine. But not as much as I miss you. I want to tell you how much I love you. You are the air in my lungs. You are the light in my darkness. I want to tell you. Please, hear my spirit tell you what my lips cannot._

He didn’t answer, and she didn’t expect him to. Still, he took a long, slow breath as he shifted his focus to her question.

_Before he was Fen’Harel._

He looked back over a life that was already far too long. Thinking back before the rebellion. Before Mythal summoned him and asked him to lead the people. Before her betrayal ripped him open. Before she died. Before his scream of agony ripped the earth and sky apart.

 _Before he was Fen’Harel_.

When he was just Solas. Simple, and free.

He hadn’t _always_ been a rebel leader, and a general, and a god.

And there was perhaps no one alive who could understand how that felt, better than the woman standing beside him.

Like him, she’d been innocent. Naïve. Unready. Thrown into the middle of a war she didn’t cause. Rising to lead, not because she _wanted_ to, but because she was the only one who _could_. And suddenly, she found herself carrying the fates of _millions_ on her shoulders.

“Do the big problems ever get easier?” Her voice was so soft, barely above a whisper.

“No.”

_What are you doing, you fool?_

He said it without thinking. Even though he knew he shouldn’t. All he was doing was giving her false hope. Making her pain worse and prolonging his own.

But if she was surprised to hear him speak, or to realize how close he’d gotten to her, she made a point not to show it.

Even here, in the Fade, Solas struggled to read her emotions. She kept herself solid, guarded, just as she was in the waking world.

 _Her_ world.

She sighed. “No, I guess not. And I guess I already knew that. Want to hear a secret though? If you promise not to tell anyone?”

Finally, she looked up at him, a glint of dark humor in her eyes. “I don’t even _like_ the story of Andraste.”

He felt pinned by her gaze, but before he could give in to his urge to leave, she looked away again.

“Nothing about it feels _true_ ,” she said, turning her gaze back across the valley. “It’s all just as distant and abstract as the Creators were. The… the Evanuris. And look at how much the Dalish got wrong about their history.”

She scoffed, and the bitterness in her voice sent daggers through Solas' heart. 

“Their _religion_ ,” she said, practically sneering.

He lowered his eyes. It was his fault she’d lost her faith. She’d lost everything that had been important to her. Her entire _life_.

And then, to remind her of everything she’d lost, everything he’d taken from her, she had no choice but to stare at her bare-faced reflection whenever she looked in a mirror.

She’d _hesitated_ in that grotto, when he had suggested removing the vallaslin. He’d waited, watching her as she processed what he told her, weighing what the markings had _once_ meant against what they meant to _her_.

And he should have known then, to leave it alone. Whatever they meant to _his_ people, they meant something different to her. Why couldn’t he have just left it alone? Why tear down her world _twice_?

Just because he’d lost his nerve and couldn’t tell her the truth? Because he hadn’t known what else to say? That was justification for destroying yet another piece of her reality?

She was the _one_ person he loved the most, in a life longer than she could even fathom. And she was the one he’d hurt the most deeply.

All the more reason to leave. All he could give her was pain.

But, while that pain tightened his chest and threatened to suffocate _him_ , Iselan simply took a breath and released it, moving her thoughts ahead.

“How much has the Chantry gotten wrong? I hope the Dalish aren’t the _only_ ones to fuck it up so spectacularly.”

“They are not.”

She deserved _that_ , at least. After everything he’d put her through. 

Maybe that was why he couldn’t leave. Why he couldn’t stay away. Maybe it was because, after everything he’d taken from her, he owed it to her to give her at least _something_ back. Even if nothing would ever come _close_ to what he’d taken, he owed it to her to _try_.

But she stole an annoyed glance at him. Only a quick look, not long enough to make him feel trapped or anxious. Somehow, she seemed to understand that anything more than a quick glance would make him pull away.

“That may be the single kindest thing you’ve said about them,” she said wryly. 

And even that twisted the knife his heart. _Them_.

They weren’t her people anymore, and she knew it. She’d already completely severed herself from them.

He knew her well enough to know that she could never go back to her clan now. Not with everything she’d learned. Not with everything she knew.

The Dalish would never accept her.

She’d lost her people, just as he had. But, while his loss had been his own doing, a price willingly paid to save the world from the Evanuris, _she_ had done nothing to deserve it. She was innocent.

She’d lost her people because _he_ had taken them from her.

Another innocent life crushed, because of him.

Again, she glanced to him, this time lingering just a fraction of a second longer, taking into account the guilt in his expression.

To his surprise, she shook her head, a small, sad smile on her face as she turned back to the valley. “Oh, stop that, vhen’an, that has nothing to do with you,” she said, reading him far too easily. But though her words carried an edge, it was softened by her gentle, comforting tone. “If you’re going to insist on carrying my pain like a burden, _that_ , at least, isn’t yours to carry.”

 _Fenhedis_ , how could she see him so easily? This was the Fade. _His_ realm. He had _eons_ of experience here. And she had only recently learned how to walk in her dreams like this.

 _He’d_ been the one to teach her how.

And yet, she stood there, a mystery to him, even here, even in _his_ realm, while she could apparently read his every thought.

_Few in this world can see me._

He’d said those words to her once. Unsurprisingly, he had underestimated just how much she truly saw.

She took a deep, steadying breath. “You never hurt me. Not with that. That was Abelas, from the temple of Mythal.”

_Abelas? Why?_

“I grew up Dalish,” she explained, answering the question she must have known he would ask. “I grew up hearing the stories. _Believing_ them. I wore Mythal's vallaslin. And there I stood, in her temple. Staring up at one of the Elvhen. The _real_ Elvhen. Not a legend. Not a sad, distant memory. He was _right there_. Alive. I…”

She hesitated, and Solas closed his eyes, knowing exactly where she was going with this, and feeling the knife dig just a little deeper.

“I thought my spirit would fly out of my chest and start dancing right there. He represented everything we’d lost. Our history. Our culture. I thought… I hoped he could help us regain it. At least _some_ of it.”

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “But he rejected us. To him, we aren’t even worth saving. We’re so far beneath him, he would rather wither away in a decrepit temple to a dead mage… god… _thing_ … than help us.”

She rubbed her arms as if she were cold. “’ _You are not my people_.’ Just the… the _disgust_ in his voice when he said that.. _._ He _hated_ us.”

The tightness in Solas' chest squeezed a little harder. This was upsetting her. His presence was making her relive all of this. He needed to leave. This would only get worse, the longer he stayed.

“At least you were gentle,” she went on, giving him pause. That was _not_ a word he often heard ascribed to him. “You never said anything _just_ to be hurtful. You saw me the same way he did-"

Solas flinched as if she’d hit him. She didn’t notice.

“But you _taught_ me. You took the time to help me understand what little I could. And you _tried_ to reach out to the Dalish when you first woke up. Everything you said about them, you said in anger, because you _tried_ to help them, and they attacked you for it.”

She dared another glance up at him. “Do you remember the first _real_ conversation we had about them?”

Allowing her to hold his gaze, Solas nodded once before she looked away again, grinning and shaking her head. “You were so _annoying_ ,” she admitted with a laugh.

He smiled softly to himself. Somehow, she always knew just how to tease that smile out of him.

“I was ready to just write you off as a condescending prick. But then… then I saw something underneath it. _You_ didn’t reject _them_. _They_ rejected _you_. You’d _tried_ to teach them, and they attacked you. I couldn’t be angry after I saw that.”

He nodded, remembering that day. Of course he remembered it. That was the day she changed _everything_. “You could see me, even then.”

“It wasn’t difficult. You were _kind_. You _apologized_ to me. Do you think Abelas would have ever apologized? Offered to help?”

“He did not know you.”

“Neither did you. But you weren’t angry at the Dalish for being Dalish. You were angry because they preferred their comfortable lies to uncomfortable truths. Because they preferred blindness. Because you tried to guide them and they attacked you. But as soon as you realized _I_ wouldn’t attack you, you let go of the anger. You gave me a _chance_. You were _kind_.”

“I was not so kind when I first awoke.”

He decided not to tell her that the very conversation she referenced, the exact moment she was talking about, was the moment he’d realized she was more than a shadow in a world of shadows.

And, though he didn’t know it at the time, that was the moment he’d fallen for her.

Looking back, he could see it all so plainly. Like a map laid out in his mind, he could pinpoint every detail, every step of the journey.

He’d been sure that what was left of his heart had died eons ago. The Dread Wolf, rebel general, ruthless leader of a long and bloody rebellion, did not have the freedom to _feel_. He’d had to leave his heart far behind.

Yet somehow, she had reached it.

The moment she spoke of, _that_ moment, as he vented his frustration with this hostile, ugly, muffled world full of detached, unfeeling ghosts, one of those ghosts had responded with _compassion_. With acceptance. With a desire to understand. With a heartfelt and genuine plea for wisdom.

One of those ghosts had shown him something _real_.

She sighed. “I suppose that makes sense. I can’t even imagine what we must look like to you.”

Solas lowered his head in embarrassment. He _knew_ what it felt like to be in her position. To look up at a being who saw him and his people as nothing more than ants to squash beneath their heel.

And then, he had done the exact same thing to her. He had made her feel the way he’d been made to feel by the Evanuris.

_I am not a monster._

Was that a statement, or a plea? He wasn’t as sure anymore.

He’d failed her. He’d denied the Dalish as his people, just as Abelas had.

She deserved better.

“I know what you look like to Mythal,” he whispered.

She stilled at his words. “Mythal,” she murmured. “She… she told me…”

“You do the People proud.”

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “I can’t help but wonder if she would’ve said that if I still wore her vallaslin.”

“She would.”

Iselan lowered her gaze in acknowledgement, but the gesture was empty. She didn’t believe him. And after what she’d been through, he couldn’t blame her.

Solas ached for her.

“Abelas and I…”

_Stop. Stop this and leave. Nothing good will come of this._

_But maybe… maybe it could make her smile._

After years of taking from her, maybe he really _could_ give her something back. Mythal was the main goddess of her pantheon, after all, and the one whose markings she’d chosen to have engraved into her skin. 

While he, Fen’Harel, existed outside of the pantheon. And Abelas was _no one_ to her.

She didn’t know that he carried Mythal’s power within him, but he could feel her love for the young elf blossoming in his heart. He could hear Mythal’s voice as she spoke to Iselan.

If he could give her Mythal, he hoped that might carry more weight in her heart than anything he or Abelas had said.

“We were wrong.”

“Were you?” she asked, her voice hollow.

Solas hesitated only a moment before speaking, carefully arranging his words to hide what he couldn’t tell her.

“There is a reason we looked to her. A reason we respected her. She was the one we all turned to for wisdom. And she watched your people through the years, while Abelas and I slept. We awoke and saw only what you lost. She sees what you _are_.”

And as he’d hoped, the corners of her lips turned up in a gentle, careful smile.

He took a chance, and stepped closer to her, further into her line of sight, waiting for her to look up to meet his eyes.

He _needed_ to, he told himself. This was something true, something _real_ , that he could give to her. So it was worth moving closer. It was worth letting that innocent, searching gaze fall on him. It was worth the longing he would wake with, and the regret that would threaten to swallow him whole.

It took her a moment, but finally those stunning amber eyes flitted up to his, and he could see the raw vulnerability shining out through them. The depth of her loss.

“She was right,” he told her. “You do the People proud. You do _us_ proud.”

She sobbed once, her hands quickly going to wipe her eyes. Even in her dreams, she still hated to cry.

But under the tears, her smile was warmer, and the hint of a blush had risen in her face.

“You’re still a sweet talker,” she said, impatiently brushing her tears away. He could hear the emotion in her voice, the fullness in her heart. 

And that, _that_ was worth it.


End file.
